Victoria
by RingsAkhaten
Summary: Five years after the events of NWZ, a lone rider descends onto the small desert town of Quintana.
1. Chapter 1

_I'm altering timeline for this AU, placing the events of New World Zorro about twenty years later, around 1850. Otherwise canonical, this story occurs seven years after the events of Devil's Fortress and after the deaths of most of the major characters. It's inspired by Kill Bill, The Quick and the Dead and every other western. Rated M for violence and mild sexuality. Some very heavy themes, murder, drinking, references to torture and sexual assault. The deaths of beloved characters will be seen in the form of flashbacks and will be violent. As you are guessing from the title and the Kill Bill/Quick and the Dead references, this is a Victoria centric story, with a few surprise characters in later chapters. The NWZ episodes An Explosive Situation and The Unhappy Medium will be referenced._

At last, the long day was over and on the far horizon, the sun began to set.

Then, like an apparition racing the falling darkness, the lone rider appeared, a dark silhouette against the russet backdrop of dying day.

On the edge of the vast desert, the pueblo of Quintana was preparing for the night to come. The tavern was bustling with visitors from all over the territory, in town for the annual quick draw contest. Even the celebrated duelist, Sir Miles Thackery, had made the long journey from his native England for an opportunity at the impressive prize.

In his company, a tableau of the most famous and infamous men in the world postured and boasted, the long preamble of psychological warfare was always the precursor to the more genuine conflicts to come.

The lone rider drew no notice from this collected assembly as he entered the tavern. In his long duster and broad brimmed hat, he was the semblance of any other drifter. The dust and grime of a desert passage obscured what little could be seen of his face, and his dark spectacles concealed any expression his eyes might have held.

Without word or gesture in acknowledgement of his fellows, the rider crossed the small room and took a seat at the bar, answering the bar keep's greeting with a stack of coins and a barely audible request for a bottle.

Mr. Abel Morgan, a lifetime resident of Quintana and proprietor of the establishment knew from his many years as a bartender that such appearances of aloofness were often deceiving and he dutifully plied his customer's ears with pleasant nonsense until burgeoning signs of attentiveness were reflected in the rider's posture.

"Yes, sir, this is the third year now and by the look of it, it'll be the biggest one yet." At this, he gestured expansively at the bustling house. "Of course, not so many will be leaving as showed up." Chuckling at his own joke, he quickly fell silent at the soft intake of breath from the rider. Nimbly shifting his topic he continued after another broad gesture at the far window.

"That whole house is Senhor Quintana's, owns it lock, stock and barrel, just like about everything else in this town." Lifting a coin from the bar and tossing it down, he added. "Fifty cents of every dollar made in this town goes right into his pockets."

"And what does the town get?"

Morgan froze at these first words the rider had spoken. After all these years, he still had a few things to learn. The lady, for that is what the rider was, was now fully attentive, and clearly awaiting an answer.

"They get to stay alive."

The Englishman, finding pause in his braggadocio, had at last turned his attention to the new arrival, hovering over the bar and the conversation like an awaiting vulture.

The lady, her posture now tensed, shifted slightly to acknowledge the intruder, her duster falling open reveal the holster at her hip.

"I have known his like."

Thackery's jaw set, his back stiffening at the sight of the gunbelt, then at the sound of the rider's voice, his manner subtly relaxed.

"I have killed his like and shall do so again very soon." At this, he glanced meaningfully at Morgan, then with a parting flip of his coattails, he collected his drink and turned his attention to a new figure just entering the tavern.

"Speak of the devil." Morgan's voice was barely audible, but the new arrival eyes seemed to narrow and quickly the man spoke again, this time, with enthusiasm.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, your host and fellow competitor, Senhor Ricardo Quintana."


	2. Chapter 2

The lady tensed at Morgan's words, then seemed to shiver, drawing a long, deep swallow from her bottle before turning slightly to face her host.

A chorus of hearty greetings and the raising of glasses erupted from the majority of the gathering, while those openly displaying their weapons merely nodded or inclined their heads.

The man, Quintana, acknowledged his introduction by way of an expansive gesture, seeming to bask in the moment of all eyes in the room upon him. Then, like a performer in the midst of a stage, he came to stand at the room's center and made a great show of preparing to speak.

"My friends, I welcome you. What a fine gathering I see here around me! Such men, your names on the tongues of all the world, but I know, my friends, you are men of actions and not men of words. I will not test your patience, good senhores with an abundance of speech. Most of you, you know me and those of you who do not, I shall tell you that I am such as you. This town, I took not by my words, but my actions. Here there is no law and no rule save mine, and now, my friends, so you too are free. From this time until the competition is ended, only the rules which govern our contest shall have hold on you. You shall do what you will and take what you want as I, Ricardo Quintana have done. Drink my friends, and enjoy!"

At his words conclusion, a hearty and elated outcry rose up from the tavern and Quintana bathed in the flush of his glory, then bowed slightly, and at last, surrendered his stage and joined the gathering, taking a seat at a table beside the door.

When the outcry abated and each within had collected a fresh glass, Morgan once again raised his voice to speak above the din.

"Gentleman and Ladies, I declare this competition to be truly opened." and after another inspired response from the small group, Abel continued. "You have from now until this time tomorrow to place your entry. Any man here can challenge any other, but all challenges must be accepted. The order of the contests will be determined by the drawing of the pairings from a hat and the times by your host. Winner is the last man standing or still living and the prize." Morgan opened his arms wide in an encompassing gesture. "Is everything you see here. The pueblo of Quintana itself, every building and stick of furniture to do with as you please."

At this, cries of shock and appreciation rose up around the room, and even a small round of applause.

"Now," Morgan continued "May I have a first entrant? Who here will volunteer to be the first one challenged?"

Once again, the Englishman made his voice heard, rising from his chair to address the tavern.

"I will enter first, for who here, with the exception of our fine host," and at this, Quintana again bloated with delight at his mention, as the duelist boasted, "would truly dare to challenge Miles Thackery?"

"I'll have at you, sir."

At this, all eyes turned upward to a figure leaning over the balcony on the second floor. The man, in a crisp, buckskin suit, raised his glass to Thackery, drawing another roar of approval from the tavern and Quintana himself, who struck the table in enthusiastic delight.

"That's Bill Barnly." Morgan whispered and the lady, swallowing heavily, sought the company of her bottle again as Abel added, "He's killed twenty men."

Thackery, who evidently knew of the man's reputation, seemed to pale slightly, but his voice showed none of his concern.

"If no one more worthy is willing, than, sir, I shall accept."

The tavern erupted in applause and celebration as Morgan took down the names on a large board above the bar. Barnly, then turning his attention to Quintana, spoke again.

"And you, sir, when shall we begin?"

Quintana, once again the center of all attention, held the moment and then at last, after a long pause, he rose from his table.

"Tomorrow, my friends, at high noon." then, after the now cursory outburst from the assembly, he continued. "And now my friends, with our first contest set, I shall leave you. The night is yours."

A few moments passed as the tavern grew even more lively, and the lady, taking up her bottle, followed in Quintana's wake.

Once outside, she lingered on the boards, staring up at the grand house, before fading into the shadows.


	3. Chapter 3

_There was only the brilliant gold of the light and the warmth of the breeze on her skin._

 _Then, the intermingling sounds, the voice of the old Don, lifted in pride and enthusiasm; and the other, deeper, sweeter, for he had always been so very kind._

 _Then blinking, the cool shadow of her own hand diffused the rays of the sunlight and beyond, the shapes and colors of the forms resolved with the glow; The Don, his silver hair caught by the wind, his dark eyes alight, the bold red and blue of the sargeant's uniform and the other, still grey and formless, save for the brilliant shimmer of the red satin sash._

 _The boy, his eyes so expressive as he gestured at the banner strung above the courtyard's gate. The words upon it, known to her heart would not form before her eyes, but beyond, on the horizon, the silhouettes of the riders.._

"Hey, lady, wake up, you're going to miss the fight."

Then, turning from the alley, Abel Morgan stepped from the shadows and into the sunlit street. The lady, rising stiffly from where she had passed the night, adjusted her spectacles, then gathered her bottle, drained the remaining drops. Following in Morgan's path, she stopped short of the street and lingered in the shadows.

The boards and porches around her were filled with gawking and reveling onlookers and beyond, Thackery stood at one side of a great fountain, inspecting his weapons.

On the adjacent side, Barnly, in the midst of a rapt entourage, made a great show of doing the same, as on the veranda of the great house beyond, Quintana picked over a small platter of foods, observing the contest. To his right, a sombre Padre offered up a fervent invocation which was neither acknowledged nor received by either of the gunmen, or Quintana himself.

The great clock which loomed over the proceedings stood now at five to the hour, and Quintana, noting this, pushed aside his meal, and gathered the attention of Morgan with a gesture. Abel then came to stand before the fountain and between the two combatants, and raising this voice to speak above the crowds.

"Gentleman, you know the rules. When the clock shows precisely the hour, you may begin shooting, but not an instant before. Shooting will continue until a man is hit, first man hit is the loser."

Then, surrendering the street, Morgan rejoined the spectators as Barnly's entourage offered up a few parting words of encouragement before joining Abel on the boards.

The street gradually fell silent as all eyes turned to the clock and the men's concentration turned to each other. Thackery, utterly composed, stood at the fullest of attention, yet some measure of Barnly's focus seemed to remain on his admirers and he winked and postured, displaying himself for their entertainment.

Finally, as the clock stood at one to the hour, Barnly's concentration seemed to gather and his hand lowered to rest above his holster. Thackery made not the faintest of motions and it seemed the fullness of his being was centered to the act of listening for the movements of the clock.

The lady, who still stood apart, her head lowered, seemed to have some premonition of the outcome, for when the clock struck, she at once focused her attention on Thackery. Her instincts proved true, for in the space of an instant, the Englishman felled Barnly, who dropped before his gun left its holster.

A stunned silence fell upon the street, and the Padre, rising from his place at Quintana's side, came to kneel before the body. After a brief inspection, the man shook his head, and Quintana, again gesturing at Morgan, smiled down on the victor. The padre, rising again, offered another impassioned prayer, then forlornly withdrew from the street. The masses, even those previously in the loser's ensemble, took their lead from Quintana, and erupted in jubilant appreciation as Morgan announced Thackery as victor.

A small remainder then descended on the body, collecting his weapons and other goods as the Englishman acknowledged his host, and then, ensconced within his admirers and lead by Morgan, withdrew to the tavern without a backward glance.

The lady, who seemed to shiver at the sight, lingered, staring at the body in the street as Quintana, his attention now focused on an approaching rider, seemed to dismiss the event entirely. The lady, then regarding her empty bottle, tossed it aside bitterly and followed the Englishman into the tavern.


End file.
